


Laughing. We're Laughing. Laughing's Good

by ElenoftheWays



Series: Nocturne for Violin and Mind in B Flat [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Exhaustion, Gen, Other, POV Sherlock Holmes, PTSD John, Post-Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, REM sleep, Sherlock Can't Sleep, Sherlock is Married to His Work, Sherlock is a fragile baby giraffe when you're not looking, Sherlock's mind won't turn off even in sleep, Stream of Consciousness, Swearing, post-REM sleep, self exploration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 19:44:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10520571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElenoftheWays/pseuds/ElenoftheWays
Summary: "The tryptophan from the Indian food must have released its death grip on his consciousness or even, he huffed, the inner voice of Mycroft came through on his threat to wake him up. How dare he when he knew that sleep was a rarity and a good 12 hours would be sufficient to be charged up for at least the next 4 days?"The first fanfiction I have ever written after half of a year's worth of reading all you magical creatures. This Sherlock fic is your fault. :D





	

But which pill was actually which?

White and speckled with brown, obviously elements are narrowed down to three elements. Two on a good day. Oh if I only got my hands on one of those bloody pills!

 

“It’s Scotland Yard’s property now, Sherlock, this isn’t a

dead body you can just pop right over to Bart’s

using those puppy eyes of yours!”

__

__“Both bottles are, of course, identical in every way_ _

__and you know which is which.”_ _

Do I?

But which pill was actually which?

Did I?

Brown elements. White. Speckled. One poisonous and the other innocuous. Speckled brown elements in a white capsule. Definitely not a cyanide or standard suicide pill. Damn it, Graves, you had to go off an--

 

__Sherlock, you know there’s no point in having one_ _

__insecure moment of the subconscious during your REM sleep._ _

__You so often tend to wake up rather agitated if you have_ _

__more than three cycles._ _ __

Jesus, Mycroft is even in my bloody dreams! Do stop it.

Right, Speckled brown minerals in a white capsule, both in similar bottles and apparently I know which is which.

 

__“There’s a good bottle and a bad bottle. You take the pill_ _

__from the good bottle, you live. You take the pill from the bad_ _

__bottle, you die.”_ _

Identical.

D

E

N                                       February 1, 2010 kfmacrae@mediabuzz.uk

T                                       Dear Mr. Holmes, I trust this quick email gets to you right away.

I                                        I wonder if you would be interested in a case involving an oddity around Dartmoor. I am a documentary filmmaker--

C

A

L

 

                                                         50

                                                         50

                                                         Chance.

But which pill was actually which? The cabbie did not have subtle body language acknowledging the difference, no twitches of facial muscles placing either vial on the table. God damn it, riddles are supposed to be easy!

 _“You can take a 50:50 chance or I can shoot you in the head.”_ __

Gambling for money is a walk in the park

This is so much more preferable.

 

“The yard calls, Sherlock, Chief wants you,

well, I might have convinced him you should                                                                 P (A) > P (B) = A

take a look at a cold case from about five years ago--”                                                  ~~P (A) = P (B) = both~~

                                                                 P (A) (Pill on the Right, one that came over to my side)  

                                                                 P (B) (Pill on the Left on the cabbie’s side)

Where is the fucking less than? That’s the point! Which is it?

  _ _Sherlock, your REM is almost up.__

 __ __5 minutes_ _ __

5 minutes. Somewhere between stages 2 and 3.

A riddle wrapped in a pressure cooker. Oh, this is good,

Christmas even!

 

“Oh Sherlock, I was told Mrs. Taylor was frantic about

her son going missing.

She is buckled over with worry and I was wondering if you cou--”

 

_**THUMP** _

__

__5 minutes, brother mine and because I’m the smart one!_ _

__I could have got that cabbie arrested and figured out that_   _

__ri__ _ _diculous__ __puzzle in the_ ___amount of time of your_ _ __ **_**_damn_ ** _ **

**_**_first_**_** ** _ ** _REM cycle_**_** _ _,__ _ _so shut up and let your body go__ __into__

__repair mode already!_ _

Ridiculous

I

D

I                                                                                                                                  I’ve ever done

C

U

L                                                                                                                                 --large dog reports, specifically hound--

O

U

S                                                                         “A Sebastian A. Roman was said to have given a witness report at the crime scene, but left                                                                                                                                       without any contact information--”

 ** **[UNIMPORTANT.**** ****FLIPPANT. PLEASE**** ** **DELETE AT EARLIEST**** ** **DISCRETION]****

Ridiculous thing I have ever done.

 

Think of something clever. He likes the clever.

I can’t believe he likes the clever!

****

“And you invaded Afghanistan.”

Oh Sherlock, that’s good.

Must sit as soon as possible.                                                                                                              Well, his wind will improve with his time here

God, my body getting too old for this.                                                                                                and that cane will be coming at any moment.

Wait, rear back and stand with him. Shows                                                                                        I should have kept a timer.

camaraderie. Camaraderie is good.                                                                                                      Angelo is getting slow in his old age.

                                                                                                                                                           Jesus, John, don’t die on me already,

                                                                                                                                                           You’re quite useful.

                                                                                                                                                           That was only Sherlock boot camp level 1!

 

_**Thump** _

__“3 minutes, brother mine.”__  

“That wasn’t just me.”

 

Laughing. We are laughing. Laughing is good.

 

****[Warning: heavy endorphin levels from laughing** **

****and elevated heart rate]** **

 

Just chemicals, Sherlock. No need to get sentimental.                                                                              This is a good high.

Bothersome transport.                                                                                                                             Haven’t felt this good under an

                                                                                                                                                               endorphin high since the 8 5 months ago

No, no, mouth breathe from the diaphragm                                                                                             or was it from the one cigarette?

and get your bloody emotions under control.

All John needs to see is that you’re capable of

human intera--

__“20 seconds.”_ _

Dear God, Mycroft, do shut up.

 

Wait

He’s laughing too?

He does like the clever!

Oh, he’s staying.

Is this what feeling like a friend feels like?

Laughing. We’re laughing. Laughing is good.

Oh God, no wait, last time I had a fri--                                                                                                    Neither of them will ever leave us.

 

No, but people die. People die.  

                                                                                                                                                                Dogs die too.

But the people, don’t forget what the people say or

how they look

how they look at you

how they say those awful things about you

the intense reactions towards people are not as bad as before, but the reflex endures

 

Just keep up the good humor and the wit. John will never notice.

Obviously he is judgmental to varying degrees.

 

_**Thump** _

 

__“Really, Sherlock, I hate being your personal timer_ _

__so just shut down already or I’m waking you up!”_ _

Because you’re the boss over my own mind?

How quaint.

“Friends; people they know; people they like.

Girlfriends, boyfriends…”

Possible over familiar interest?

Usual alpha male perturbation?

Ridiculous

“You don’t have a girlfriend then?

D’you have a boyfriend?”

Why do people even care about these things?

Who has the time?

Rubbish

“Right, OK, you’re unattached… like me.

Fine. Good.” 

 

Why do they never believe me when I say

I’m not motivated by those things?

 

 

****[CAUTION: DINNER AT ANGELO’S** **

****CONSIDERED FOR DELETION** **

****AT EARLIEST CONVENIE--]** **

                                                                                                                          Please don’t delete that! You delete so many things. I like John.

People and dogs die.                                                                                          Stop

People no matter the loyalty                                                                               No!

It’s the natural order of things.                                                                           Stop

Dogs die too.                                                                                                      No!

They die.                                                                                                             Stop

                                                                                                                           Stop!

 

A cheek twitched upwards. Whether it was from the shouting repetition of an eleven year old version of himself or the sudden wetness of twitching flesh against lower eyelashes, eyes blinked wide open. The moisture was spouting directly from them, proving resilient looking over to the neon light announcing 4:38 AM. Breaking off of sleep after only eight and a half hours? This was a rarity, he still had four more to go for optimum rest after this case. He believed John titled it “A Study in Pink” having written it in under five hours. Ridiculous. “The Deadly Ride” or even “RACHE” could have been more preferable titles, but this was why John had the social skills and the audacity to blog about him.  

The tryptophan from the Indian food must have released its death grip on his consciousness or even, he huffed, the inner voice of Mycroft came through on his threat to wake him up. How dare he when he knew that sleep was a rarity and a good 12 hours would be sufficient to be charged up for at least the next 4 days? But this was only the inner voice and the worst thing to hear under the warmth of his blankets with tears streaming down his face! They still cascaded. Hands shocked the nerves in his cheeks, wiping them off so abruptly so soon after waking up. Tendons leaped and the heart rate momentarily fluttered just from the touch alone. Why was he even crying?

Remembering dreams was greater a rarity, but tonight was different sitting up in bed and leaning against the leather headboard, looking over to the mirror. He looked disheveled and nowhere near rested, the peripheral nervous system still humming after its sudden movement.

__Thump… thump…_ _

__Thump… thump…_ _

Curls dropped back against the wall, eyes looking up to the rather Edgar Allan Poe sounds of floorboards but instead of a heartbeat, it was merely John’s pacing. Memory of prior dreams, or really more of a flow of consciousness during a shallow state of REM, slowly came back to him. The thumps were unavoidable as it seemed the ex-soldier, his leg now far more confident after officially moving into 221B, had the commonality of a more fitful sleep pattern. Groans and the occasional shout riddled the evening sometimes shocking a vial right out of his hands onto the kitchen floor. But after the noises came a steady five minute pacing then the bed would loudly creak in its bent shape and John would be asleep all over again. It was the usual thing to be expected of someone with PTSD, or so he Googled, experiencing all the ugliness that is Operation Enduring Freedom.

To call John a friend would be too soon, although the light of neon clock would say differently. Oh… and then all of those sleep-riddled trains of thought truly came back to him. Sitting at Angelo’s unsure if he was to feel uncomfortable for the sudden allusion of interest. Laughing up against the wall feeling an actual sincere smile inch across his mouth before shouting back to Mrs. Hudson’s flat that John was taking the room. But after so many years of trying to explain to vapid and judgmental ears that “marriage to the work” was his primary interest, it was officially easy to slide off whatever it was that plagued John. Obviously he was bothered by Angelo’s date insinuations, affected by society and those silly little things that are normative judgmental behaviors. To think of John’s personal interests was an invasion of his privacy, so assumption was just not appropriate and yet unavoidable. It fed into Captain Watson’s alpha male discomfort so really, it was all miscommunication. If only the case wasn’t intertwined with the night’s events, deletion would be incredibly easy. If John was to live with him for quite some time, deletion would prove completely necessary, but this fresh file would simply be tucked into the deep recesses of John’s room in his mind.

Even awake, the experience in the hallway still jolted strange neurons through the synapse, the sparks sending a strange shiver down his spine. It was the hallway portion of the night, ignorant of the drugs raid above them, that still struck him deeply within that chaotically organized mind. Of course it was deep enough for that voice, a miniature him breathlessly shrieking Redbeard multiple times over, to whisper through him that he rather liked John. But pirates remain far more interesting than the army. There were so many connotations to be made, the running Irish Setter panting between gasps of laughter, the tilting of that huge pirate hat against his curls felt like nothing more but ultimate contentment. Here with breathless and older gasps full of cynicism and matured actuality still remained something close to that contentment. Perhaps he underestimated friendship at first or second or third sight.

“That was ridiculous.”

“You invaded Afghanistan.”

John huffed, somewhere between breath and a chuckle, “That wasn’t just me” and it was all giggles from there. This was what being friends felt like, right? His voicebox almost trembled to vocalize this as intuition sometimes came to him secondhand in speaking out loud. But randomly speaking out loud came rather naturally, but something so private and so late at night was rather unneeded. To possibly wake up John finally in a deep sleep would be a bad idea. But __this__  was what being friends felt like? That moment of shared laughter, he had never shared a fit of laughter with someone else before. There was an occasional huff of acknowledgment under a sudden second of wit with Mycroft, but it was barely synchronous like this was! Once more, without comprehension, moisture ran down his face all over again. These tears barely held sentiment, but simply reaction sitting there on his rumpled white sheets, leaning up against the soft leather headboard and crying without a facial muscle manipulated under its weight! It was a long and emotionally charged night ending with practically eating his weight in dim sum and spare ribs.

His throat almost closed off entering 221B after that meal somewhere between exhaustion and studiousness. It was a night of Googling what Moriarty meant and perhaps even a blog post or two on “The Science of Deduction.” Sometimes a 3-rated exhaustion only meant pure unadulterated focus and after all, inventory of his chemicals had to be done, believing a fourth of them having been confiscated during that so-called drugs bust! Anderson’s heavily cologned stench still had to be taken out of the kitchen as well as he stood in the partition between the kitchen and living room. John picked up a book on the table next to what hopefully would become “his chair,” his eyes darting between focusing on his face then into his own eyes.

“Well, um, goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” finally ruptured the dutifulness into action, believing starting in the kitchen would make sense. But walking across the room to his laptop, John already nearing the stairs with his swift militant steps with an “are you going to bed?” “Too much work to be done, John, too much work.”

“Because the game is on, yeah?”

“If by game, you mean finding some sufficient way to burn Anderson’s lingering cologne out of the kitchen, then yes John.” It was almost as satisfying as “you invaded Afghanistan,” hearing the ex-soldier chuckle behind him before picking up his laptop in order to move fully into the kitchen. The intensity was not as acute as before, but even a smile proved impossible opening up the cabinet where his precious chemicals sat. His fears were correct, a fourth practically wiped out! “Goddamn it” his voice effortlessly grumbled.

“Oh, and Sherlock,” looking over his shoulder before fully turning to meet the doctor in the eyes, John was grinning a more subtle look than earlier in the hallway. He was clearly stuck between sentiment and that alpha male perturbation of emotion as the fingers holding the book gripped momentarily, whiteness appearing in the knuckle then softening as that unrelenting awkwardness in his throat continued “Thank you for, uh, well, everything.” For someone in the military, Captain Watson had a surprising depth of vulnerability, but perhaps this too was a feat of PTSD. This deduction was confirmed during a 6 AM lapse in judgment during his Googling, finding himself shockingly moved by that certain look all over his face. How was he to trust it with his already flimsy assurance? The neck effortlessly nodded, a momentary pinch of a grin back to Watson believing it unfair to silently judge the look on his face for interest all over again. What use is human attraction other than a criterion for procreation? What did it matter when there was an emotional matrix of neurons, chemical and neurological imbalances working themselves out after so many years among the dead and dying? Why did this matter so much to people?

There was no use in going over the insipid argument all over again, yet it was always there in the tiniest crevice in the back of the mind. But judging people based on simply being people had too often been easy and sparingly one of the last things he thought about before giving over to those 12 (sometimes a full 24) hours of sleep. Even with the shriek of nerves that still chanted the cabbie’s cry of “Moriarty” and that damned ridiculous pill riddle, his mind still managed to be distracted by this odd thing that was friendship. John had, after all, saved his life in shooting the cabbie. No one other than Mycroft or Lestrade had __reasonably__  saved his life before!

But John still had a lot to learn when it came to his interesting stance in life: “married to the work” was simply easier than saying “physical human attraction does not interest me,” “dull” than “not everyone fits in a breadbox, John, some people are not meant for the predictability of companionship and if someone like me finds that appealing, it should not judged on any standard even the invisible ones lodged up society’s arse that cannot be undone so easily.” During Mycroft’s sanctioned “training,” he explained that one should at least attempt to put on a good marketable first impression, even if it meant rewording what one really wants to say. So he did it a few nights ago and all he got was some kind of alpha male reaction when it came to the act of anything other than heterosexuality then an effortless awkwardness that seemed to beset the ex-soldier and doctor quite easily. Hands wiped down a dried face, officially over recounting all that had happened between the stanzas of the case and almost, you know, dying.

Sleep felt like the heat of his Belstaff before fully slipping it on, there yet not there, inches away from his body to soon be enclosed, but the encompassing exhaustion refused him. A gentle thud sounded from the back of his head meeting the wall, a fluent groan wafting right off of his vocal cords. At last laying back down into his own body heat, that chaotically organized mind at last slowed down.

He laid there.

A minute passed, then another.

If he owned a pendulum clock, he would have heard the seconds ticking away.

If he were to believe this was some kind of Mycroft mind trick in messing up his subconscious (more than he already had), a large chocolate cake frosted with “fucking git” would show up at his public office. Mycroft would still eat it and chuckle shot through his whole body at the very idea. He __would__  eat it, the idiot. But this man who called himself his brother did enough damage within or without his subconscious and he let him, so all of this was not entirely Big Brother Holmes’s fault, but he would never admit to it in the light of day.

Thankfully, no sounds came from the second floor bedroom.

Still he laid there.

A minute passing, then another.

Dear God, will this torture ever end? If the sleep was not interrupted, a bout on his violin sounded quite nice, but what were the rules now with another person in the house and especially one with as much sleeping troubles as he had? This was what courtesy felt like yet friendship still seemed to be a scoffing amazement. Him, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, utterly baffled by the stupidest of abstractions! Perhaps there was a difference between thinking and experiencing cogitation, simply giggling like school boys unexpectedly derailing a little too elaborate plan in detaching John from that bloody cane. It was something unexpected that wasn’t a gun to his head or the murderer showing up to his flat; this was quite different. This was quite different feeling a sincere chuckle coming to his throat, the folds of skin inching up against the edges of eyelids and actually feeling something quite surprising. People must take advantage of this emotion.

OK, Mycroft, I’m sorry, I won’t go back to the pill riddle again!

A minute passed, then another.

Still he laid there.

Goddamn it, what would it take to fall back asleep? Lifting his head then dropping it back in a momentary fit, all of this was utter shit. Even as a child, once he was sleeping, he was out, but every so often an unexpected jolt out of slumber would render him impossible to go back. Playing the violin helped and maybe it would help John with his own PTSD-addled dreaming. Something soft pushed against his chest but in opening his eyes, nothing was there except the white panels of ceiling. Oh, this was what sympathy felt like. This was what sincerity felt like. Perhaps this friendship thing wasn’t incredibly difficult after all, once more the consideration of mind over experience and vice versa. Even Goethe said “Knowing is not enough, we must apply.”

 What would it take to fall back asleep? Curls moved across a pillowcase, hissing in its movement looking towards the bedside table with the clock now shouting in bright red 5:15 AM. There was the common knowledge that men easily fall asleep post-sexual stimulation, the lubrication gel tucked safely in the drawer underneath that rude analog clock just for this certain usage. Again an unreasonable courtesy swelled through his chest, that would be the last thing to be done during the first few nights of John’s residence in 221B, no one should be subjected to another person’s sexual pleasure, even if its used for medicinal reasons! Still, it would be a better alternative to the violin, broad movement elevating the already steadily moving heart rate. The last time he looked at the clock was 5:34, already plotting the clock’s timely demise.

If this was a diabolical plan of the Mycroft in his mind, it at last gave into the deepest sleep, plotting a murder was possibly the incentive. The length of time was irrelevant, barely hearing sounds of life outside his room knowing that the simple oddity that was Captain John Watson was possibly shuffling around. Breakfasts would be made, he had to assume buttered toast with a good strong coffee was the doctor’s usual choice. Simple yet fascinating this man was, relying on the words of his peers for the health of his leg that just needed more “Sherlock training” yet starving for the violence of war despite any PTSD that even subtly ran through his body which would explain the pacing, the dismissive pacing that nothing was really wrong with him. Maybe for the next few days, he would treat that part of the ex-soldier with kid gloves, but how does one treat another with kid gloves exactly? Could this mass of contradictions possibly become his best friend?

Touch was the first of the senses to wake up, acknowledging his own bodily warmth surrounding him like a heated cocoon as his body laid on its right side, arms huddling across the waist of his pajama pants. God, how pathetic to wake up in such a vulnerable position and finding his mouth to be wedged open. The sun was already a hefty block of light from the window on the opposite side of the room, if he paid attention to the planets figuring out the time without rolling over would be quite substantial, but he was still quite furious with the clock for dragging for a bloody 56 minutes.

He needed a hammer.

The cord of the clock rhythmically slapped his knee caps. Charging out of his room swift enough for his loose robe to create its own wind against his lower back, goosebumps promptly tickled between shoulder blades. Slamming the clock down on the counter, he almost forgot about that delightfully unassuming John sitting right there, drinking his tea and engrossed in the classifieds section of the Daily Mirror. But at the impact, the soldier stood straight up in perfect militant precision at the shock. An empathetic wince never came, far too engrossed in remembering where he last put that hammer turning his back to his roommate. His roommate…

“Um, why do you have a hammer in the refrigerator?”

There was no reason to answer John back, closing its door then taking the cool handle between both of his hands and letting out all the aggressive frustration of the night before all over the damned clock. The unrelenting pill riddle. Mycroft’s voice. Those ridiculous reactive tears to the shock of having a friend, the person he was before and after those fascinating jolting neurons. How dare he have such a reaction towards another person! Caring usually turned into disappointment. Sentiment would be his ending! This almost felt better than whipping that man in the morgue just a few days ago! Springs and batteries fell out left and right, the plastic casing falling every which direction.

“Jesus, what the hell was that?!” John all but yelped, his frustration clearly as humorous as it would be funny on the doctor’s end. His eyes were wide and pupils dilated under their natural shock, a hand over his tea cup. Cheeks were bitten into, attempting to not laugh too hard at the look on his face, dropping the hammer on the island with a heavy thump. Perhaps John had to work on his cogitation as well, things like this had to be expected if he were to become his best friend and after those long and frustrating 56 minutes, he certainly would!

“Just a welcome to the neighborhood, John,” he heard himself call out in a moment of fantastic wit. But before praise for the work well done on both the clock and banter, quickly clicking a wink over his shoulder to the doctor before disappearing into his bedroom, he would treat himself with an extra four hours of sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> **So much thanks to http://arianedevere.livejournal.com the more canonical dialogue


End file.
